Chapter three:
Miram wrote and re-wrote her notes on Regulus Black several times that summer in different notebooks to the point where she had memorized most of them. She had her secret shoebox full of the Black family letters written to her mother, and now her extensive notes that Black had given her.
But it wasn't enough.
Miram often took the train to London while her aunt and uncle were at work, perusing the extensive wizarding library for eight, nine, sometimes ten hours a day—more if her aunt was working a double shift. She found old newspaper articles and court transcripts of nearly every name on her list—all accused of being Death Eaters. Some were dead, some imprisoned, and the rest acquitted. Most of Miram's information was about Regulus's childhood, and so she searched extensively for Horace Slughorn, the retired Potions Master. She wrote a carefully-constructed letter asking for information, and less than a week later, received the following in reply:
Miss Fawcett,
What a delightful surprise to have received your letter! Needless to say it was entirely unknown to me that Regulus Black fathered any children! I of course understand your desire to learn more about him, but I am afraid that I pose little more than a dead end. I knew Regulus well in school, having been both his teacher and Head of House, but our correspondence came to a halt after he left school. It was a year later that I heard anything about him, and I was greatly saddened to hear that it was only of his passing.
I do wish you the best in your journey for information!
Best Regards,
Horace E. F. Slughorn
After several weeks of this, it became clear that Miram had gathered far more information on her father's friends and acquaintances than on himself. She needed more to work with, but Black was the only person who could help her.
Miram beat the palm of her hand against her forehead, feeling stupid and embarrassed every time her thoughts drifted to Black. She figured her aunt would come looking for her eventually, but never suspected she would be tracked down so soon, or that the Ministry would go overboard. Miram couldn't have possibly screwed up her encounter with Black any more than she had, and now she couldn't return.
The train rides to and from her aunt's house in Wembley were long and lonely, giving Miram plenty of time to think about what angle to try next. Miram returned home each night, stuffing the contents of her bag carefully into a shoebox she kept hidden from her aunt and uncle in an old laundry chute. Her aunt Lailah was a Healer and often worked double shifts; Uncle Robert was a politician frequently out of the country. This left Miram to wander their huge house alone most days ever since her mother passed away.
Miram's relationship with her aunt and uncle was strained before it began; Miram's mother, Judat, had been born a Squib to a wealthy and politically-influential wizarding family. From the beginning Judat was an outcast in her family, an embarrassment that ran so deeply that Aunt Lailah pretended she had no sister when she let for Hogwarts. Judat attended a private muggle school in Switzerland, mostly to get her away from the rest of the family most of the year. When Judat turned seventeen, she returned to England to work as a waitress in Hogsmede—her resemblance to her older sister Lailah was undeniable, and soon the rumors began that Judat the Squib was the youngest child to the Fawcett family.
Judat said it was around this time that she met Regulus Black, the darkly handsome boy from Hogwarts who was always so polite. Their relationship was swift and dizzying, an electrifying secret that they both kept from everyone. When Judat became pregnant near the end of Regulus Black's seventh year, she was swiftly disowned by her family and promised financial protection by her lover. That protection, of course, never came again after the first bag of gold. Regulus had all but disappeared from the world, leaving Judat to raise an infant with no support from either side. Judat quit her job in the Three Broomsticks and moved to the muggle world, where she supported herself and Miram by working several odd jobs until the day she died. At eight years old, Miram was shuffled through a foster system before being picked up by the Committee for Magical Child Welfare through the Ministry of Magic and eventually handed over to a reluctant Aunt Lailah and her respectable husband, Robert. Just when Lailah thought she was rid of her connection to a Squib sister forever, her bastard child became her responsibility. As for Uncle Robert, he had never wanted children, insisting they got in the way of his political aspirations. He regarded Miram as a sort of permanent guest of Lailah's, hardly acknowledging her relationship to the family.
Miram attended a private girl's school from eight to eleven years old, when she unexpectedly received her Hogwarts letter. If discovering her niece was in fact magical didn't repair the feelings Aunt Laila held, then nothing could. Miram was sent to Hogwarts with no expectation of magical prowess, and her Sorting into Ravenclaw only further reaffirmed Aunt Lailah's belief that Miram was a crafty, meddlesome child. Miram grew up from a quiet kid into a rebellious teenager, frequently sneaking out and socializing with teens much older than herself. With her aunt and uncle gone more often than they were home, Miram had grown accustomed to doing anything she wanted.
So when she had received Walburga's letter detailing her relationship to the Black family and insisting Miram find the disowned heir, Miram plotted a trip to Mobile Alabama over a careful year and a half, saving up money along the way by selling her notes and homework to her classmates.
Upon returning to Wembley, Aunt Lailah had attempted to ground Miram for the remainder of the summer, even going so far as to enchant the perimeter of her house from allowing Miram through. Miram, of course, figured out the counter-charm in less than two days, and continued her routine of riding trains into London almost daily. As long as she returned home before Aunt Lailah's twelve-hour shifts ended, then no one would be any the wiser. There were no other relatives, no House Elf, not even a single pet to notice Miram's absence in the huge, empty house at the end of Hampton Drive.
It was on one of Miram's countless train rides into London that she began to brainstorm ways to meet with Black again. She could find an excuse to be gone from her house for a week again—it was getting Black to open up that was the tricky part. He would undoubtedly be furious, but if Miram could offer up something as a trade… but the only thing he seemed to be interested in was Harry Potter. And she couldn't exactly drag the Boy Who Lived halfway across the world with her…
The train weaved intricately through the business district, winding past other trains on a web of tracks toward King's Cross. Miram hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, trying to think of any other way to get Black to talk to her. There was Veritaserum, but she didn't know how she would get Black to drink it. She could try blackmailing him, but there was nothing she held over him other than empty threats he would doubtlessly see right through. Besides, she wasn't trying to make her relationship with Black worse than it already was.
Miram walked the few blocks toward the wizarding library, a cavernous facility built directly underneath the British Library. She descended the stairs to the hidden entrance quickly, slipping inside unnoticed.
Like the British Library above it, the Great Wizarding Library was expansive and even offered a small trolley service to get from one end to the other. Entire wings were dedicated to journalism, historical documents, various subjects in reference, literature, and genealogy. Wax dripping from candles would ruin the priceless documents, and so the library was lit with thousands of fairy lights enclosed in little baubles, floating around the high ceilings and following the patrons around, lighting the way. Despite seeking out the library on an almost daily basis for two years, Miram had only managed to cover perhaps twenty percent of its reference section, and less still in journalism.
With nothing to go on, Miram returned to the familiar section in journalism, pulling out carefully-laminated newspapers from November and December of 1981. Between articles detailing Voldemort's demise were stories surrounding the final round-up of Death Eaters still at large, the ascension of the new Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, and of course the subject of the day: Sirius Black's sensational arrest.
Miram knew the story well at this point; driven mad with grief, Peter Pettigrew tracked down Black and cornered the man on a busy muggle street only to be blown apart moments later. Miram combed through the articles carefully, writing down names and quotes relating to Black. She searched through the entire calendar year of 1984, the year Black was finally released from Azkaban with nothing more than an Order of Protection and a world of suspicion. Articles quoted the Black patriarch, Arcturus, insisting upon his grandson's innocence and demanding the Ministry release him at once. The opinion pieces were less forgiving, going into great detail about how it was only the Black family's strong political connections and sheer wealth that bought Sirius Black's freedom. Once in a while were articles detailing Peter Pettigrew's death, wavering between suspicions and outright hero-worship. Pettigrew's death had been ruled an accident, but Miram was sure this was simply the Ministry's way of saying they didn't know what had happened.
Nearly a year after Black's release from Azkaban, the papers turned to inquiries on the man's location, all detailing his mysterious absence from the wizarding world. Arcturus Black had died at this point, leaving Sirius as the only male heir to the name, and no one knew where he was. Some speculative opinion pieces detailed elaborate plans for Black to reinstate Voldemort or become a Dark Lord himself, while others reflected on the clear fact that Black was never a real person, and was instead a ruse invented by the Ministry to explain a secret form of government magic gone awry.
After having met Black, Miram realized how outrageous most of the articles were in their portrayal of him. Black was quiet and insisted upon his solitude—very unlike the maniacal monster in the newspaper. Miram sighed, shoving all the papers back into their rightful place on the shelves.
This left her only the original articles from 1981, thick volumes filled with stories about Voldemort, Harry Potter, the Ministry of Magic, and final assaults by Death Eaters. Miram picked one up and skimmed through some of the periphery articles—stories she had ignored in her initial research of Black.
THE BOY WHO LIVED WITH MUGGLES
It was a bizarre albeit catchy title, and Miram read on—
Harry Potter,1, the Boy Who Lived, is reportedly staying with muggles, according to an anonymous source.
For weeks the public has wondered what has become of the baby wizarding hero, and a recent report from within the Ministry of Magic itself indicates that Potter is currently under the care of family. Being as Potter has no surviving relatives on his father's side, this report suggests that Potter is staying with his mother's family—muggles just south of Surrey!
Miram set the paper back down on the table, rubbing her eyes tiredly. It was a quarter to four, and Aunt Lailah would be off by seven. Her day of research had yielded very little, and Miram felt it almost wasteful to head home now. It was halfway through July, and Miram was running out of time if she was going to track down her father before the school year started.
Miram turned back to the gossip article.
Lily Potter's elder sister, Petunia Dursley, refused to comment, demanding this reporter leave at once. It is unclear if the Boy Who Lived is in fact living with muggles, but—
Miram was struck with a sudden, wild idea. She scribbled the aunt's name down in her notebook before shoving the papers back onto the shelf, entirely out of order. She hurried through the library, taking the steps two at a time until she reached the narrow alleyway outside. Miram all but ran to the muggle British Library, bypassing all the receptionists for the general reference section. The computer was ancient and took forever to boot up, and opening Netscape Navigator took even longer. Once Miram was finally logged into the library's search database, she typed in Potter's aunt's name.
A few news articles showed up detailing some fancy lawn club, but the one that caught Miram's eye was fourth on the list.
Petunia and Vernon Dursley of Number 4, Privet Drive, Surrey, are proud to announce the birth of their first child, Dudley Martin Dursley. Dudley was born June 30th at the Royal Surrey County Hospital.
Miram hastily scribbled this information into her notebook. It was a long shot to think the Dursleys still lived in Little Whinging, but it was worth a shot.
Miram walked hesitantly down the narrow, suburban streets of Little Whinging. All the houses appeared exactly the same, and even the cars and garden maintenance all seemed to match. It was dizzying keeping herself oriented, and Miram kept referring to the map she had brought. She passed a busy playground, which seemed right…here was Magnolia Crescent…and Privet Drive.
Miram felt strangely nervous knocking on Harry Potter's door, but after she had been brave enough to meet Black, she knew it ought to be no problem. Miram counted the house numbers as she walked by, finally stopping just outside of number four. The garden was perhaps the most green, and certainly the most immaculate. Miram was sure the muggles who lived here were the sort to trim their lawn with a ruler and a pair of scissors. Miram's eyes looked over the perfectly-shaped rosebushes that lined the house before taking a few hesitant steps and knocking firmly on the door.
She heard footsteps inside, and a moment later, the door swung open to reveal a rather thin, horse-faced woman. For a split second Miram was sure she had knocked on the wrong door; this woman looked nothing like the red-haired Lily Potter. Perhaps the Dursleys had moved on?
"Er, Mrs. Dursley?" Miram tried awkwardly.
"Yes," the woman replied slowly, looking Miram up and down, no doubt disapproving of her multiple piercings and unconventional manner of dress.
Relief and excitement flooded Miram's veins. "Er, my name's Miram Fawcett. I'm looking for your nephew, Harry Potter?"
Mrs. Dursley looked as though Miram had just informed her that she had most unfortunately ingested radioactive water and had less than twelve hours until she sprouted an extra head. The woman quickly scanned the street behind Miram, as though neighbors were pulling over their vehicles to eavesdrop on the conversation.
"I'm a friend of his from school," Miram tried. She hoped that it would calm the woman down, but it seemed to do just the opposite. Mrs. Dursley looked scandalized, as though Miram had just uttered a string of the foulest curse words, and hissed a quick, "There is no Harry here!" before slamming the door shut.
It took Miram a moment to realize what had just happened. She blinked a few times, taking a few hesitant steps back before turning toward the driveway. She supposed she could always try writing Potter…it would waste a lot of time with back and forth correspondence, but it was better than nothing…
"You'd have better luck chucking a stone at my window," came a disembodied voice.
Miram jumped, looking around, but no one was there. Then, just before she could have a heart attack, a scrawny teenaged boy crawled out from under a hydrangea bush, straightening his glasses and brushing dirt off his oversized clothes.
"Potter," Miram said aloud, almost in confirmation.
"Er, do I know you?" Harry asked, frowning at her.
"We go to school together," Miram replied, realizing how crazy she must look. "Ravenclaw, a year ahead of you, I think. Look, er, this is kind of weird, but do you have time to talk?"
Harry hesitated, looking over his shoulder at his aunt's house. "I'm not really supposed to leave the house without permission…"
Miram shrugged, giving the cookie-cutter house a dark look. "I snuck out, too, and all the way from Wembley."
Harry gave a sort of nervous half-grin at that.
"Come on," Miram added, gesturing with her head in the direction of the park. She had the same look on her face older kids used to give her when encouraging her to sneak out of her private girls' school to share a cigarette. "Just for a bit."
"Er, all right," Harry agreed after a moment's hesitation.
They walked in silence toward the park, which was empty now. Miram chose a seat on the rusty swing set, absently pushing off with her heels, and Harry followed suit.
"So, er, your aunt was a bit strange," Miram said, unsure of how to get the conversation flowing with a boy she had hardly knew.
"She doesn't like magic," Harry replied, shrugging. "None of them do. Usually they pretend I'm not there, so when someone from our world comes knocking, she sort of freaks out."
"Huh," said Miram thoughtfully.
"How d'you know where I live?" Harry asked. "I mean, you mentioned Wembley, so you must not live around here."
"Well, I needed to find you before school started, so I looked up your aunt and uncle's address—as soon as I read in some old muggle papers that Petunia Evans married Vernon Dursley, it wasn't too hard to find. Kind of scary, isn't it? How much information is just sitting out there about you?"
Harry shrugged, but he had a pensive look on his face, as though the thought had never before occurred to him.
"Have you ever thought to look yourself up?" Miram asked. "There's loads about you in the library in London—"
Harry groaned softly at that. "Uh…no, not really. I mean, the whole being famous bit…it's not for me. I'm really not all that special, it's just people think I am because of the whole Voldemort thing when I was a baby."
"What about your parents?" Miram tried carefully.
Harry looked over at her, squinting in the afternoon sun. "Is there stuff about them? In the library?"
"A bit," Miram allowed. "Mostly articles about their deaths, at least from what I saw."
Harry nodded, turning back to look over the empty sports field across from them. He was silent for a long moment, but Miram knew she couldn't fill the silence too soon—Harry needed time to mull over the idea first.
"You said there's some library in London?" he finally said.
"The Great Wizarding Library, just below the British Library near King's Cross," Miram replied. "I go there almost daily."
"Why?"
Miram shrugged, surprised by the question. "Er, research, I guess. I've been trying to find out what happened to my dad."
Harry looked around at her questioningly.
"He disappeared during the war," Miram replied hastily. "And after my mum died, I went to live with my aunt and uncle. My mum wasn't married when she got pregnant, so the whole thing was very hush-hush—I hardly know a thing about my dad."
"I don't know much about my parents, either," Harry replied sympathetically. "Just mostly stuff Hagrid's told me."
"Er, look—" Miram said, unable to keep beating around the bush. "The reason I came here—I went to the States a bit ago—"
Harry looked impressed by that. "Alone?" he guessed.
Miram grinned in spite of herself. "Er, yeah—anyway, I met with someone I think is my uncle. After my mum died, I got a box of all her letters and stuff, letters that were about me. She had been writing my dad's family—most of them have died off, but my grandmother gave me my uncle's name and address out in America so I went to go see him."
"You just up and left? Did you tell him you were coming?" Harry asked, turning in his swing to face Miram directly.
"Not my smartest moment," Miram admitted, feeling sheepish as the memories of her disastrous trip to Alabama crept back into her mind's eye. "But I did do a load of research on him before I went…and I'm pretty sure he knew your parents." The last part was a huge understatement, but Miram needed to gauge Harry's interest before she went further.
"Really?" Harry asked earnestly. "Like they went to school together?"
"Er, more like my uncle said they were all best friends," Miram said carefully. "He said he knew your dad really well."
Harry just about shot up out of his swing. "Really?" he said again, his excitement obvious. "D'you think—oh…" Harry stopped mid-sentence, visibly deflating. "…you said he lives in America…"
"I'm going to try to go back," Miram said. "I'm sure he'd be willing to tell you about your parents—I can give him your address if you like—"
Harry thought about it a moment. "That wouldn't be too weird?"
Miram shrugged. "He didn't know he had a niece until I showed up."
"Er, yeah," Harry replied, relief crossing his face. "Yeah. That'd be great."
Miram should have been elated, but something ugly kept nagging her in the back of her mind. "I should tell you a bit about him first," she said carefully. "So you're not shocked or anything."
"Uh, all right," said Harry, his smile faltering just a bit. "Yeah."
"Well, he was accused of being a Death Eater, you see," Miram began, trying to paraphrase Black's dark past. "So he was in Azkaban for three years—he was innocent, though, so eventually his family was able to get him out. Only the problem is, I guess, once you've been branded a Death Eater it's really hard to look past it."
Harry was watching her with a blank face. "What's a Death Eater?"
Miram was surprised for a moment, but then remembered Harry's only contact with the wizarding world was at school. "You-Know-W-Voldemort's closest followers during the war," she explained, switching mid-sentence to Voldemort's real name. She felt her heart skip a beat when she said it. "Top witches and wizards who would do most of the dirty work."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "So how did he get accused of being one?"
"Remember that he's innocent," Miram rushed to say, feeling like she had to defend Black to Harry. Maybe she did; maybe Harry would want nothing to do with Black if he knew what the man was. "So everything I know was in the papers, and it wasn't really clear—but it sounds like Black—my uncle—was accused of handing over his friends to Voldemort when it was actually someone else, someone who had framed him. Well, before the Ministry figured that one out, he was carted off to Azkaban for a few years."
Harry's brows were knit together in thought. "And Azkaban is…?"
"The wizarding prison," Miram replied.
"But he's innocent," Harry clarified.
"Definitely."
"Well, that's all fine," Harry decided. "That's nothing he could have helped." Miram hesitated, and Harry frowned at her. "What?" he asked slowly.
"The last part you should know," Miram said slowly, as though speaking gently would soften the blow she was about to lay down. "The friends he was accused of betraying…they were your parents."
She wasn't sure how she had been expecting Harry to react, but Miram imagined it would at least be some form of shock or even horror. Instead Harry just stared at her, a funny look on his face as the words sunk in. "How do you know?" he finally asked.
"It was in the papers," Miram replied.
There was screaming in the distance, and Miram and Harry both looked up to see two young children, not much older than five or six, come tearing into the opposite side of the playground. They were racing each other to the merry-go-round, thumping around on its hot metal surface. Straggling behind was their mother, shielding her eyes from the sun and calling out for the kids to be careful.
"So what happened to the person who really did it?" Harry asked.
"He's dead, too," Miram said quietly, pulling a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I guess Black had tried to track him down, and the wizard—Pettigrew—tried to escape by causing a diversion. An explosion or something? Anyway, he died and the Ministry ruled it an accident."
"So does the Ministry know he's the one responsible for my parents dying?" Harry asked, a sort of forcefulness in his voice that Miram associated with people much older.
"Yes," she said slowly.
"You don't sound sure," Harry observed.
"It's all very messy, and like I said, this is all stuff I found in the papers," Miram replied. "I'm sure Black could explain it better than me."
Harry stared at the ground, absently pushing his swing a few inches with the balls of his feet. He was deep in thought, and Miram watched him earnestly, waiting for a reaction. In the distance, the two children were running around, letting out screams of glee while their mother relaxed on a nearby bench, all but ignoring them.
"So what's his name? Your uncle?"
"Sirius Black."
Harry shrugged. "Never heard of him."
"Really?" Miram asked, a little surprised. "I mean—didn't anyone mention him when they told you about your parents?"
Harry shook his head. "No," he said dully. "No, just that Voldemort murdered them and then tried to kill me."
"Oh," said Miram softly. "Er, sorry."
"For what?"
Miram shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I thought you knew—well, a bit more about what actually happened."
"No, no one told me."
There was another long silence.
"So…d'you think this Sirius Black would care if I wrote him, asking about my parents?" Harry asked.
Miram shook her head. "No, definitely not," she said assuredly. She briefly entertained the idea of informing Harry that Black was his godfather, but swiftly decided against it. She would leave that detail to Black to divulge—if he ever chose to tell Harry. "Er, I'm planning on going back real soon—I can give him your address and have him write first, if it's less weird that way."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "That would be better."
Miram checked her watch; it was half past four. She would have to get back to the train station if she was going to make it home before Aunt Lailah returned. She stood up, absently brushing her hair out of her face. "Er, well, I should probably get going. I know it was really weird to just drop by with all that."
"No, it was…" Harry thought, mulling over the right word. "Informative."
Miram smiled at that. "Right. Okay, well, er, I guess I'll be in touch? If you're sure?"
It was a harmless enough question, but Miram knew how many rules she was breaking by this single meeting with Harry Potter, how many lives she was disrupting. But she could justify the meddling—that was important. Harry Potter would learn about his parents, Black would finally get contact with his godson, and Miram would have the information she needed to track down her father. It wasn't the best or neatest way to go about things, but it would work. Everyone would get a little piece of what they had been missing.
Harry nodded, getting to his feet. "Yeah."